


True Love, and Other Silly Things

by Hanatamago



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Divergence - War with Sreng, Cinderella AU, Cinderella!Ashe, Fairy Godmothers!Mercedes and Annette, Fluff and Angst, Guard Commander!Dedue, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Mutual Pining, Post-War, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanatamago/pseuds/Hanatamago
Summary: As the Harvest Ball draws near, Ashe can only dream of what such a grand, wonderful celebration must be like… He’s only a commoner, of course - it’s silly to think that he would ever get to go to something so fancy. But on this moonlit night, the spirits have other plans…Dedue does not care for dancing, but the Harvest Ball is an inevitability. Watching Dimitri and Felix blindly fumble through their feelings for one another is, likewise, an inevitability, and one only made worse by the pressure for the king to wed. Love is a tricky thing, and one that Dedue has easily avoided thus far. Little does he know how quickly that is about to crumble...
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47





	1. Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StardustCocoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StardustCocoa/gifts).



> To Erin,
> 
> Happy birthday! I hope this is still somewhat of a surprise - man has it been hard not to talk about this for a while! But I'm sure you had some suspicions :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy your gift fic, but I have to say, I hope it makes you even *half* as happy as all of your wonderful comments have made me over this past year (gosh, it has been a whole year now!)
> 
> Thank you for being such a bright light in the FE3H fandom, and for endlessly inspiring me to keep writing <3

_To whom it may concern, the king is giving a ball._

_All noble folk of Faerghus are extended gracious invitations to attend a night of grandeur celebrating the end of the harvest with a traditional masquerade ball. The doors of the palace shall open for the Harvest Ball at dusk on the twenty-fourth day of Wyvern Moon. Those who are spoken for may bring a companion. Those who are not spoken for are invited to dance with the king._

* * *

The scrolls posted around the town are deceptively simple. Thin parchment, simple black ink, and a very official royal seal of blue wax and brushed gold. The king’s right hand is known for his clipped, stiff messages, never lacking formality but certainly lacking style. And yet, no matter how plain the scrolls may appear, the news within is _anything_ but!

The king is giving a ball! It’s the talk of the town! And sure, it’s all very exciting, but it means that Ashe can hardly find a moment’s peace between the buzzing gossip and lovestruck, hopeful young ladies flitting around the bakery! The notices were only posted the other day, but Ashe has been working on an unexpected influx of flower-shaped pastries and delicately iced cakes for nearly a week now, mostly ordered by nervous young lords. He should have suspected something!

Outside his dusty corner of the Wildflower Bakery, the marketplace is ablaze with chatter. Merchants run to and fro, preparing their stalls for a full night of selling harvest wares. Commoners can’t attend the ball, but they always have their own festivities in the streets. Usually, they’ve got food stands, street music, and more ale than they know what to do with!

Fancy pastries or not, the harvest festival is one of Ashe’s favorite parts of the year. The whole town comes together to eat and drink at the same tables. Sure there are spats here and there, but that’s true of all families, right? Surely it’ll lift the town’s spirits, but… Selfishly, Ashe wishes he could be somewhere else on the night of the harvest festival...

He stares out the window with a heavy sigh. Flocks of commoners crowd around the posted notices. It’s silly - Ashe _knows_ he’s being silly - but he can’t help imagining what the ball must be like, even though someone like him would never, ever, in a thousand years be allowed to attend.

Two young women pause by the notice posted right outside his bakery, already elbow deep in a conversation about the ball. They look to be commoners by Ashe’s eye, but certainly better off than Ashe and his siblings. It’s clear in their clean linen dresses with no sign of holes or mud stains, and in the wicker baskets they carry, stacked with fresh fruits and vegetables from the markets.

“Eh, I wouldn’t hold your breath,” one sighs, “Doesn’t matter how well you can dance, royals are only interested in Crests.”

“Might not be true, though,” she protests, “They say the king has always had a soft heart, maybe he’ll marry for love!”

“Love of a Crest, which you don’t have, Beltha.”

She frowns.

“I can dream, can’t I?” Beltha says, “If I was born with a Crest... Oh, how different things would be! I’d be the lady of the town! I’m pretty enough, aren’t I?”

“Maybe in a dirty mirror,” her companion teases.

“Why - you!” Beltha playfully swipes at her.

Ashe quietly shutters the window and retreats back to his safe, flour-dusted countertops. He should really get back to work… The spiced loaves won’t shape themselves, will they? 

Ah, but still… It’s too easy to let his mind drift and hope for fantastical things. Like a dozen perfect sugar cookies, all for himself! Or a nice, plush mattress to fall into at night! Or attending a grand ball... Oh, but he was only a poor commoner! 

And, well… Sometimes commoners were invited to the balls, but only if they came from a wealthy house. And Ashe certainly did not come from a wealthy house. He was no merchant’s son. He wasn’t from any distinguished line of soldiers. Even the king’s rejects wouldn’t take interest in someone from his background...

He came from nothing. Less than nothing, even. Once upon a time, he might have had a claim to something - his parent’s restaurant. But now… That piece of his past was lost to cinders, burnt to the ground when the plague swept through Fhirdiad so many years ago. Ashe wasn’t so special. Dozens and dozens of people lost their homes in the healers’ purge of flames. Still, it hurt to remember, even all these years later.

Ashe should be grateful he’s still alive, really. Even if he is working at Lord Kleiman’s bakery and not at the restaurant. Even if his pile of debt for his family’s shelter keeps growing and growing. It was a miracle that he and his little siblings escaped the plague with little more than runny noses and sore throats. And years later, after the plague, after the war against the Sreng, it’s another miracle that they’re all still in one piece. Sure, they work in the cramped bakery kitchen and sleep on rough straw mattresses in the attic, but it’s something. They’re alive, and they’re together.

Ashe folds down the crust of his most recent pie - a thatched pattern with a little heart cut into the center. Glistening, baked apples coated with sugar glaze would shine through the heart and the gaps in the weave as it came out of the oven. It’s one of the cutest designs he’s ever made! Of course, it’s for a nobleman, so Ashe won’t get the chance to taste it, or to see the reaction of whoever he’s likely asking to the ball. But still, he’s proud of the pie nonetheless. 

Ah, that’s the last of the day’s work! The sun begins to dip lower in the sky, and the flow of villagers passing through the marketplace slows to a slow trickle of late regulars. A handful of quiet customers (all weary commoners) slip into the bakery to trade produce or their wares for bread and eggs - Ashe is fortunate that the bakery covers at least that much for him and his siblings. Well, Lord Kleiman never gives freely - all of their meager grain only adds to his debt, but at least they aren’t starving. Ashe will take that burden gladly.

The Wildflower Bakery closes just after the town bell rings seven-o-clock. Ashe hangs up his apron and tries (and fails) to dust the last specks of flour off his cheeks. He leans back on the counter, taking a breath to settle himself. They’re alive. They’re together. They’re staying afloat, even if it’s just barely. 

He can handle the cooking, he can handle the cleaning, he can even handle dealing with nobles who know nothing about baking, and who think they know _everything_ about tasting.

But he can’t do it alone. He’s never been good with the math part - if his little brother Alistar hadn’t stepped in a few years ago, the Wildflower’s losses would only add to his debt! But Alistar is good with numbers. He handles all the taxes due to the city, and he even haggles with the wealthier townsfolk - he knows what they’re willing to pay for spiced bread and sugar cakes with imported fruits. With him at the helm, they’re actually turning a profit! 

Of course, most of it goes right into Lord Kleiman’s pockets, but Ashe’s meager earnings go towards the debt. He’ll pay it off one day - he just needs the Wildflower to do even better. He just needs to pick up a few more jobs on the side. Last month, he helped Agatha, the kind innkeeper down the street, with a few little repairs and chores around the inn. The pay wasn’t much, but it helped towards the debt, and she even gave them a few sets of her tablecloths!

Of course, Abigail, his sister, is better suited towards the aesthetics of the place than he is. On top of their shiny new (well, actually, they were a charcoal grey - better for stains) tablecloths, she wove pretty, checkered napkins for the countertops, and placed a few tasteful decorations around the place every time the seasons changed.

When the aristocrats order fancy cakes, she picks flowers from Ashe’s tiny herb garden to decorate them - only the edible ones, that is! It’s the extra homey touch that keeps lords coming back to the Wildflower. That plus the service. Most of their patrons vaguely know that Lord Kleiman owns the bakery, but they send their runners to the three Duran siblings rather than addressing Lord Kleiman himself.

It’s hard work. Even once everything is set to rest overnight, he’s still got to sweep and scrub down the floorboards. He tries to fix up the splintering wood in the back, and he makes sure the iceboxes haven’t sprung another leak. He launders the aprons (and the clothes Lord Kleiman tosses in as well, because, hey, it’s free labor, right?), and he dusts every counter, and he washes their glass dishes for the next day. He feeds the chickens and harvests their eggs. Ha, at least he doesn’t have to milk their dairy cow - all of the Wildflower’s milk is delivered!

It’s exhausting, even with his siblings’ help, but it’s his life. Lord Kleiman just keeps piling more and more work on, like he hasn’t already got enough to deal with! But he can’t so easily say no, either… Ashe needs this job - it’s all he has! Even if he were to leave, he’d still be drowning in debt. It’s not like he’s got anywhere else to go, either… If Lord Kleiman were to fire him and say he was a terrible employee, then no one would even give him a _chance_. Worse yet, Lord Kleiman could call him a thief. 

And he would be right.

Even before the fires, before the plague, they were never that well off. Ashe had never tasted a stock that hasn’t been watered down twice over. But after they lost their parents… Well, Ashe so clearly remembers all the nights he used to go to bed hungry, hoping that he’d swiped enough for the two little ones to fill up. Lord Kleiman knows that well. It doesn’t matter if he had his reasons, it’s enough for the town to leave him to starve.

It’s easier these days with all the spare, days-old bread. Once in a blue moon, he could even afford to buy a cut of meat for them to feast on or sweet yams from the south! Of course, it’s more profitable for them to bake pies with the extra meat and vegetables they can snag with their coin. Alistar insists on it, and Abby won’t let him off the hook either.

Oh, it’s an utterly exhausting life, really… Perhaps that’s why Ashe can’t help dreaming of living another one. He’d never leave behind his siblings, of course! Even if the Goddess whisked him away to be a magical prince, he could never bear leaving them. But if it were only a night...

At the ball, they’ve probably got all sorts of meat pies, and maybe even fish! Ashe never has the time to fish these days - a trip to the river and back takes a whole day on foot! But he remembers it fondly. He’d fish with his father, back then. Of course, he’d never catch. Not with his weak little kid arms and untrained reflexes, but he would cast a simple, straight pole along with his father and sit by his side for hours… Those were always Ashe’s favorite meals. All it took was a little bit of lemon and herbs to make their fish taste absolutely delicious! Ah, that was a different time.

He can’t turn back the clock. If he could - if there were any way - Ashe would pray to the Goddess for a few moments longer with his parents. He is grateful to her already for her many blessings, but if he had known how short their time would be…

Not even the Goddess can find a lost opportunity. But Ashe wishes for it anyway.

* * *

Autumn paints over the rolling landscape in reds and yellows, stretching out over the rolling hills to the south. Sunlight flashes off the rippling waters of the river that splits Fhirdiad from true Blaiddyd territory, casting the waves in bronze as the sun dips below the treetops. It looks far warmer than it is - the waters are frigid this time of year. The birds have long since flown south, leaving only messenger ravens nesting in the rookery. Wyvern Moon is well upon them now.

Dedue patrols the outer walls of the castle as though it were any other Wednesday. 

It is not any other Wednesday.

No, on this particular Wednesday, the castle is abuzz with visiting nobles and seven different types of artisans hard at work. The craftsmen rush about, perfecting their plans for the grand ball to be held at the week’s end, filling the hall with the sights, sounds, and smells of festivity. Indeed, as of late, the castle has been consumed with a never-ending list of tasks focused on aesthetics above all else. Rather than worry over his stack of new trade policies with Sreng, King Dimitri is pulled aside to judge the delicate embroidery of napkins and the exact hue of jewel-toned drapes to adorn the ballroom.

It is important. Dedue knows it is important because he (unfortunately) knows nobles. At the worst of times, they are unimaginably vain. At the best of times, they are picky and snobbish. Dedue is a practical man. He was not raised around such finery, and he cares not for such grandiose displays of wealth (and to be clear, Dimitri does not either - he is not like most nobles in that regard). However, matters of the ball are not up to him, and not up to Dimitri either.

Indeed, the ball falls within the domain of his prickly advisor, Duke Felix Fraldarius.

Felix, who detests such pomp more than the two of them combined.

And yet, he insists on it. In truth, Dedue does not mind the ball itself - rousing harvest festivals are commonplace in Duscur, complete with plenty of dancing and drinks. However, those festivals are a sight more casual. Their drinks, served warm and sprinkled with toasted spices, are much stronger than the thin ale imported from southern Faerghus. Their dancing is not saddled with codes of etiquette and pages and pages of implication with each step. The event is put on by commoners themselves; if Duscur nobles attend, it is not as honored guests, but as mere festival-goers. 

Ah, Dedue thumbs through his fond memories. The festivals of his youth have only just begun to return to Duscur. They are quieter now, but they will soon blossom as the nation’s long-held burdens ease, thanks to support and reparations from Faerghus. Hard-won reparations, which Sylvain fought for when Dedue was too weary to speak of his Duscur’s pains. 

And, in truth, Dedue knew far less of proper international policy than him - stars bless Sylvain for that. For ten months, he sent letters to Dedue, occasionally sailing to the islands alongside him. And they wrote. Ten months, they spent writing policy, perfecting each detail, tackling each bad faith ‘question’ about how Faerghus might better spend its funds to benefit her people.

Ten months, and a lifetime’s worth of frustrations, but it had worked. Of course, their work was not for Dimitri - he would have trusted their word well enough. Their work was for the nobles. When Sylvain presented their appeal to the council of lords (Dedue had neither the charisma nor the desire to address them), he came armed with statistics and detailed accounts. Each squirming deflection was met with Dedue’s steady gaze and Sylvain’s polished smile. Some struggles remained still. Old, bitter sentiments had not fully died among the lords of Faerghus, and Duscur was not yet truly whole and independent. But the commoners, for their part, quickly forgot their prejudices once the nations’ trade began to flourish. It was progress. 

Dimitri insists he should visit Duscur more. He should. Really, he should. They have built a steady peace now and their shared prosperity only grows. For all that Sylvain had done, Dedue must also thank Claude for his part in opening Faerghus’s ports to foreign nations. He should visit. But he is needed here. At least, until Dimitri has settled well into his throne.

Which brings Dedue back to the matter ever-persisting in the castle’s collective consciousness: Dimitri, King of Faerghus, peacemaker of Sreng, and last member of the royal Blaiddyd bloodline, has not yet wed.

That, Dedue knows, is why Felix has insisted on a ball. That is why he has put himself (and Dimitri, for that matter), through the torment of _event planning_. Even if the last thing Felix truly wishes is to see Dimitri promised to another, he has convinced himself that Faerghus will crumble without an heir. He is right, of course, but it is a time of new beginnings. If Dimitri wished to simply name an heir, he would be well within his rights to do so. 

But, of course, there is the matter of Dimitri longingly gazing in Felix’s direction, wearing his heart on his sleeve as though it might pass as his royal insignia. There is the matter that Dimitri wants Felix, and it is only because the duke himself is too busy pointedly looking elsewhere that he can’t manage to see it.

Dedue does not envy either of them, except in that sometimes, just for a moment, he is morbidly curious of what it must be like to be so oblivious.

Perhaps one day, they will figure it out, but Dedue is not a betting man.

He bids goodbye to the serene lookout’s perch and begins his solemn march back into the castle proper, where he will no doubt find a new stack of letters on Dimitri’s desk, each from yet another vapid aristocrat vying for special treatment for their daughters at the ball.

Dedue slowly makes his way into the quiet halls on the second floor reserved for real work (not meetings, that is). He nods to the handful of crownsguard he encounters along the way, each wearing a practiced groove in the tiles as they patrol the castle. At last, Dedue enters Dimitri’s office.

Ah, Dimitri’s office.

Even without the ornately carved sign on the door, Dedue would still know it to be Dimitri’s. He knows it by the haphazard stacks of paper on the back table, stacked in alternating bundles, lengthwise and crosswise. He knows it by the cup of bitter black tea on the desk, far colder than it was ever meant to be consumed. He knows it by the weariness that simply seems to exude from the currently empty chair behind the desk, and by the pile of cinders in the fireplace that indicates far too much working in the dark and chilly hours of the night.

Bookshelves along the walls hold all manner of literature the king has deemed most important. Books on trade, history, and even magic. Maps of their neighboring nations plaster the walls. Trinkets from diplomats and merchants who have visited the castle over the years peek out from books on the shelves.

Three armchairs sit on the rug by the fire, begging for a reader to cozy up with a cup of tea and unravel the secrets of diplomacy, or whatever else might concern the crown as of late. Decorative napkins seem to be a point of contention these days. The chairs make a tempting offer. Dedue removes his steel helmet and sets it on one of the few uncovered surfaces in the room - the mantle over the fireplace.

The door clicks open.

Dimitri nearly collapses into the room with a heavy sigh. He shuts the door, perhaps a little harder than necessary, but the hinges of the castle have withstood many Blaiddyds before him. Thank the stars for modern engineering, else the palace would have torn itself apart from the inside out.

He settles into his armchair in a tired heap. An exhausted heap, really. If the day’s worth of meetings were not enough to tire him, then thoughts of next week’s grand ball certainly suffice. Dedue joins him, taking the armchair closest to his desk.

“Why Felix insists on all this pomp, I’ll never know. He’s never been one for festivities,” Dimitri sighs, “You know, even in our youth, he loathed anything that called for more than twenty people in a room. Certainly nothing so ‘pointless’ as a ball.”

“The years pass on, your majesty-”

Dimitri shoots him a look. They are many things. Close friends. Brothers in arms. True family, by Dimitri’s assessment. (Dedue agrees. It has taken time, but he agrees.) And after so many years, he is not wrong to ask for Dedue to address him as such. But Dedue has been commander of the crownsguard for many years, too, and these habits are difficult to break.

“Dimitri,” Dedue corrects, “it is unusual for a king of your age to be yet unmarried. Felix only has the kingdom’s interests in mind.”

“Surely putting my shoddy footwork on display will only make matters worse,” Dimitri grumbles, “You must admit, I am no, err, ‘Prince Charming’.”

“You are a king. I assure you, there is no shortage of women who would gladly accept your hand in marriage, if you deemed them sufficient.”

Dimitri looks at him helplessly.

“Or men, for that matter.”

In truth, there is only one man in Fhirdiad - in all of Fodlan - that is suited to hold such a position. Dedue knows it. Dimitri knows it. He knows, but will not say it. Not even with his dying breath, if he thought his secrecy would save Felix even the slightest bit of pain.

The lone king deflates.

“Goddess, I feel like a princess coming of age.”

“That is not so far off,” Dedue snorts.

“I imagine most princesses are a fair sight more prepared for galas,” Dimitri chuckles. The lightness helps - not fully, but some. “Dedue, would you take tea with me?”

Dedue nods and Dimitri’s smile instantly warms, if not for any progress on the ball, then by Dedue’s presence. For all the rush of their past - the Tragedy, Dimitri’s struggles as a prince coming of age, and then the war - only now, in peacetime, have they been able to make time for one another over tea. Only now have they been able to relax around one another, no longer so high-strung with the ever-pressing fears of mortality.

And while the dark shadow of the Harvest Ball looms over them still, a spot of tea between friends always helps.

* * *

Ashe plunges his rag into the soapy water and drags it along the rough floorboards. It’s his third pass - hopefully this time it would be ‘spotless’ enough for Lord Kleiman. Not that wood could really be spotless, considering the dark grain patterns... But he couldn’t very well say that as an excuse. 

“I hear the prince likes redheads,” one of the nobles giggles from a table on the porch. “Perhaps I should get a touch of color? I would look excellent in strawberry blonde, don’t you think?” 

Their voices drift easily through the open shutters. Ashe’s eyes stay trained on the floorboards, sure, but well, his ears don’t have anything _else_ to do but listen! Hey, it’s not his fault!

And, admittedly, Ashe _lives_ for the gossip nobles let slip when they think no one is around to hear. Honestly, even if they had seen Ashe, his commoner presence would hardly deter them from such a conversation. 

Still, it felt like a peek into another life. And it wasn’t really eavesdropping, they were in public!

“Mmm, I heard he had a fling with the Margrave. Do you think-”

“Hey, war is war,” one offers, voice shrouded in innuendo, “you know the men become… close.”

“He’s always been _progressive_ ,” one says, hardly bothering to stifle her giggles.

“Bah, but he’s looking for an heir, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know… There were rumors of him abdicating, you know.”

“Hm. Then why bother? A grand ball just to find a…” her tongue seems to curl around the words in distaste, “A suitor? What of his family line?”

“Oh, hush. Can you not understand love?” the noble lady swoons over her macaroons. (Okay, she probably didn’t swoon, but she sounded dramatic enough that Ashe thought it a possibility!) “Perhaps he’s looking for companionship. True love...”

A beat of silence… Then, the other nobles burst into loud, cackling laughter.

Ha, well, it was a silly thing to say. True love… That’s just a fantasy for little children and romance novels - everyone knows that. Even Ashe.

* * *

With the third jab of his dulled wooden lance, Dimitri sends a poor straw dummy toppling back onto the tile floors of the training grounds.

Ah, he is not as lithe and practiced as he was during his days in Sreng, but he is no old man either. While his reflexes threaten to slow after days upon days of paperwork and diplomatic brunches, his strength remains ever potent. Ha, it’s probably a terrible thought, but some days, Dimitri thinks fighting was easier.

It was - which is not the type of thing a ruling monarch should be thinking, but it’s undeniably true. In wartime, he did not have to cater to the whims of a dozen lords bickering over petty disputes. Diplomatic issues arose, yes, and the challenges of feeding a small army were not so easily dispelled over tea and biscuits, but there was solidarity within his ranks. 

Dimitri sighs and picks up the dummy, setting it back on its stubby wooden feet for another round of imagined parries and counterstrikes.

There is no dire need for his practice, of course. Faerghus’s diplomatic relationships have been steadily improving since Dimitri took the throne. Even Sreng, after so many years of conflict, has settled into a fragile peace with Faerghus. Of course, that is due in large part to Sylvain’s diplomatic efforts. The war in Sreng was stopped not with blades and bloodshed, but with words… Well, words that were exchanged once Faerghus had earned their respect with blades and bloodshed, but words all the same.

Domestic issues may arise here and there: infighting, conflicts between lords, difficult winters - but Fodlan exists in a state of relative peace.

That, he owes to his closest companions, not his own skill in navigating Fodlan’s politics. Sylvain’s sharp eye for diplomacy, Felix’s insistent focus on domestic policies, and Dedue’s wisdom in knowing the will of the people - without any of them, the palace surely would have crumbled under his reign.

“Running away from the tailor?”

Dimitri whirls around to see a displeased Felix leaning against the doorframe. Ah, perhaps displeased is not the right word. He frowns, yes, but Dimitri spots the edges of his lips curling into a fond, hidden smile. 

Dimitri blushes and sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. He is well used to Felix’s sharp tongue hitting its mark dead-on, but his jabs are different now that they are grown. They are colored with a tinge of amusement rather than cutting hostility. If there is any saving grace of his peaceful, dreadfully administrative reign, it is that Felix now stands at Dimitri’s side as a close advisor and a dear friend.

Nothing more.

Felix rolls his eyes. “No excuses, boar?” 

Truly, how many fittings does a cloak require?

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me,” Dimitri chuckles.

“So I have. Spar with me, and maybe I won’t chew you out for shirking your duties.” Felix moves to pick through the rack of blunted training swords. 

After all these years, Felix is still Felix. If anyone longs for the simplicity of war more than Dimitri, it is him. Before Sreng, Felix would only break his oath of chilly silence to ask Dimitri to spars. He would only make eye contact to prove Dimitri’s defeat or to begrudgingly concede his own. 

He still refuses to look Dimitri in the eye, but he has warmed.

“Anything to avoid a lecture from you, Duke Fraldarius.” Dimitri smiles.

Felix scoffs at that. He slips out of his overcoat and buttoned vest, stripping down only to his soft, woolen undershirt and sinfully tight-fitting breeches. Felix pulls the tie from his hair, sending silky, midnight-blue strands toppling over his shoulders. He brushes out any unruly wisps and ties it up once again - he means to wear Dimitri out, then. 

Ah - Dimitri looks down to his practice lance, investigating a hairline crack on its base as though he had not been gawking at his duke only seconds prior. (He is a terrible liar, even in this.)

Felix clears his throat. The tip of his blunted steel blade gently presses at Dimitri’s chest. His eyes flicker like defiant amber candles, even turned to the side.

“You’d better not hold back on me, boar.”

* * *

As dusk falls, the last rays of sunlight fade from Ashe’s little garden. Music from the marketplace drifts on the air, along with all the other sounds and smells of the harvest festival tonight. Torchlight from the streets flickers into his tiny patch of farmland. They can’t afford too many seeds from the marketplace, and the soil isn’t rich enough to plant vegetables in, but Ashe does what he can. The garden blooms with a mix of wildflowers and herbs Ashe has scavenged from the forest - hardy herbs, the kinds that regrow each year, even in times of bad harvest.

Their flowers are plain compared to a proper flower garden - resilient little blooms like white daisies, clover flowers, and a patch of violets that nearly took over the garden when they first took root!

It’s not much, but Ashe is proud of the life he’s coaxed from a once barren patch of rough grass.

In the daylight, butterflies sometimes grace the flowers in his window flowerbeds. Every time Ashe sees them, he’ll make a wish. They never really come true, but they also wouldn’t come true if he didn’t make them at all! So he does, even if it’s just a silly superstition.

See, every time a shooting star passes through the sky, it’s a sign that the Goddess is granting someone’s wish, and if a butterfly lands on you, it means that the Goddess is listening! Or, that’s what his mother said, anyway. Butterflies never landed on him, but she’s still supposed to be listening - to everyone, or at least all the kind people - so maybe… Maybe his wishes aren’t falling on deaf ears?

Ashe closes his eyes, wishing so desperately that a shooting star would appear and he’d be whisked away to the palace, but - but oh, he’s so stupid! It’s pointless! More than that, it’s selfish!

“Oh, why am I so upset?” Ashe sobs, “It was always just a silly fantasy, why did I ever even _dream_ of going to the ball?!” 

If he hadn’t dreamt of it, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much! Oh, but he just wanted one night to have nice things - shiny goblets, and fancy clothes, and good, rich food - just once!

“Oh, don’t cry, dear!” a soothing voice sings from the air. Ashe whirls around, startled and confused until a shimmering lady appears, dressed in cream-colored robes. She kneels at his side, hugging his shoulder. “It’s alright to be upset, Ashe.”

The cold panic fades from his chest as she hugs him - he can feel it, so she can’t be a ghost! (She also seems far too nice to be a ghost, not nearly vengeful enough...)

“Yeah!” A smaller, red-haired woman pops out of the air on his other side, beaming from ear to ear, “Mercie’s right! It’s okay to have dreams, even if they seem really far away!”

“W-wait, who are you?” Ashe squeaks, “and h-how do you know my name?”

“My name is Annette,” the red-headed one beams, “and this here is Mercedes! But you can just call us Annie and Mercie! We’re your godmothers!”

“My… what?”

“Faerie godmothers! Like mothers, only we’re not actually related at all!” Annie laughs, “And we’re here to turn that frown of yours upside down!” 

“But… I don’t have a godmother?” Ashe says, stuck somewhere between excitement and utter bafflement, “Wait, did you say you were… faeries?!” He pales.

“Yep!” Annie cheers.

“I do appreciate your comfort,” Ashe gulps, feeling the panic creep into his tone, “but I have nothing to offer you, and um, I need to take care of my siblings so uh-”, his rambling words come out in a rush, “ _please don’t drag me into the eternal twilight of the Feywild and eat my soul_.”

“Oh, nothing like that,” Mercie pipes up, gently noting his stress, “We’re not the evil kind of faeries, dear!”

“Well, um… Who exactly are you then?” Ashe asks quietly, “I know you said you were my godmothers, but… I don’t remember my parents mentioning anything like that - and I think I would have remembered something like, er, _faeries_.”

“I guess it’s kind of a long story,” Annie says, “It’s true that we didn’t know your parents - but we’re here to watch over you all the same! Think of us more like… hope!”

“Like… what?”

“Oh, dear,” Mercie giggles, “I don’t think you explained that very well, Annie.” She pulls a sparkling silver wand right from the air - summoning it right out of nothing!

Ashe gasps - it’s magic! Well, different magic - not like faith or reason - like, the kind straight out of a storybook!

With a flick of her wrist, a tiny wooden tea table appears, complete with three short stools and a steaming pot of tea that smells of autumn spices.

“Have a seat, Ashe,” Mercedes gestures to one of the stools, “I’m sure you must have lots of questions, and this may take some time to explain.”

* * *

Dedue has spent far too much time securing the palace.

That is not to say that his task is easy, or that Dimitri is not worth the hours Dedue has spent searching for blind spots in the guards’ patrols. His safety is paramount, and Dedue has no regrets in taking on the duties assigned to him as commander of the crownsguard.

But he has spent too long on this because ensuring the king’s safety is easier than dealing with the flurry of pre-ball excitement bouncing around inside the palace walls. On his third uneventful lap around the perimeter, Dedue finally concedes. He has done all he can.

With a long sigh, Dedue returns to the castle to supervise the goings-on in the main hall.

Stewards bustle about the halls on their assigned tasks, each carrying a checklist to ensure everything goes to plan. Crimson velvet curtains adorn the windows of the ballroom, replacing the palace’s usual Blaiddyd cerulean. Circular tables draped in ochre cloth dot the room, leaving a sizable clearing in the center for lords and ladies to dance. Bards warm up on a stage in the back of the hall. Later tonight, from that very stage, they would weave songs that ring out through the ballroom and seep into the courtyard, where nobles sneak away for private trysts.

(Mostly private - Dedue has seen more than he can count. The nobles are mostly harmless though, aside from occasionally plucking his treasured roses, only to leave the cut blooms withering on the castle grounds the next morning. It is not enough for him to intervene, but it is close.)

“Um, S-sir Dedue,” a stuttering maiden flits over to his side, nervously gazing up at his helm. He recognizes her as Jana, one of the younger seamstresses still in her apprenticeship under one of the palace’s senior tailors. Commonborn, which only adds to her nerves about serving the royal palace. She is good-hearted and plenty capable. In time, she will find her footing.

“Hello, Jana,” Dedue says, “Do you require assistance?”

“Yes, sir.” She blushes and nods. “Um, the tailors have finished with King Dimitri’s cloak, and I thought perhaps you could pass along the message? I would send a steward, but I haven’t been able to catch one standing still.”

Dedue nods. “I will bring the cloak to his chambers.”

“Oh!” she flusters, “I-if that isn’t too much trouble, sir!”

He is not a messenger boy. The task is well beneath his station, and Jana knows it. However, his only alternative is to stay and watch the stewards fuss over the smallest details until their arguments turn to mush in Dedue’s ears. Frankly, he will take any excuse to stretch his legs again.

“It is no trouble. I must report to his majesty before the ball regardless,” - a lie, he does not _need_ to give a report, but it sets his mind at ease - “I can easily take his cloak along.”

Jana nods. “Right, then. Follow me, please!”

He does. It is only a short walk to the tailor’s office - if you can call such a grand, yet cluttered space an office.

The room is packed with mannequins dressed to the nines. Various artisans - masters of sewing, beading, and lacework alike - kneel on the tiles and fuss with spots of embroidery or unfinished hems. Each piece has been commissioned by members of the Faerghus nobility - a handful of which live in the castle for a few months out of the year at Dimitri’s request.

It is good that they do, Dedue supposes. The palace is more a hulking fortress of stone than it is a grand estate. Familiar faces do much to keep the place from growing too desolate in the winter months. With each season, the cast of characters in the palace changes just as much as the weather itself.

Dedue spots familiar motifs among the garments - the symbolic bear of House Charon on an ornate sash, the silver rose favored by Lady Venna of Gideon on a flowing purple ball gown, and a plain navy doublet with silver clasps. Without a doubt, the doublet belongs to Felix. It is the only garment in the room that has escaped the tailor’s hands unscathed by fanciful silver embroidery, and the only one sized to Felix’s lithe yet muscled form.

Knowing Felix, the doublet has been sitting on the mannequin for weeks while Felix insists that his existing formalwear is perfectly satisfactory. And it is, no doubt. Dedue respects his practicality. However, most aristocrats do not agree.

Jana weaves through the crowd of busy workers, disappearing into the back. Dedue is far too bulky to follow, so he waits patiently at the door. Ordinarily, his presence might cast an awkward silence in the room, especially while he wears his armor. But today, even fully clad in his steel plate, the craftsmen have no time to pause for him.

Dedue appreciates it.

Jana pokes back through the crowd with a folded cerulean bundle - Dimitri’s cloak.

“Here you are, sir,” she says with a smile. “Thank you again for taking the time!”

Dedue nods. She cannot see the warm half-smile he offers under his helm, but perhaps she feels it. As soon as the cloak settles in his hands, another seamstress calls Jana from the back. Their work never ceases, it seems. She gives a quick curtsey and scurries back into the fray.

Stepping back out into the relative quiet of the castle halls feels akin to surfacing for air. He makes his way to the king’s chambers, savoring the feeling of purpose, however small it may be.

(Dedue may walk slower than usual on his errand, but the main hall does not need his presence so desperately.)

He finds himself before Dimitri's chambers soon enough. A thick, heavy door carved from walnut - currently cracked open - sequesters his private space from the rest of his castle. Over many years, Dedue has watched Dimitri’s room go from a barren space kept only out of necessity to a warm reflection of the king’s life and the people within it. 

That is not to say that Dimitri no longer struggles with his hollow past - he does, and mightily. Many of his nights are spent sleepless, whether he fills the void with the ever-growing stack of paperwork demanding the king’s attention, or by sparring against training dummies meant only to convince his body that it does, in fact, need rest.

But he has improved, and Dedue does not take that fact for granted. The end of the war has certainly brought him peace, but perhaps the larger part is that Dimitri is now surrounded by people who care about him - more than just his claim to the throne.

“Goddess’s sake,” Felix grumbles from behind the door, “Why the heavens decided such a clumsy man was fit to be king, I’ll never know.” 

Dedue is not the type of man to eavesdrop, nor is he the type to interrupt such a delicate moment. The relationship between Dimitri and Felix is… _fraught_ , to say the least. Past their blind fumbling around one another, there is a tension there that even Dedue, more perceptive than the both of them combined, cannot easily untangle. He does not know the unspoken depth of their bond. Perhaps that is because Dimitri does not know its depth either. At least, he does not know how to interpret it.

Which, Dedue must admit, is only because the two of them are so tragically determined to deny any evidence of the other feeling the same. Dedue has hinted - _stars, he has hinted_ , but Dimitri has forged himself an impenetrable plate armor of excuses. Reasons Felix could not feel that way about him, reasons they could not live happily together, reasons that he cannot speak his own feelings aloud for fear of hurting Felix.

This is why Dedue does not walk in. He does not interrupt. He waits patiently and lets his eyes fall on the crack in the door.

He only sees the broad strokes of motion, but combined with the sound of silver clasps clicking into place, it is easy to recognize the task Felix fixes himself upon. Swiftly, harshly, he unbuttons and rebuttons Dimitri’s black velvet vest, sighing all the while.

“My apologies,” Dimitri chuckles, “I often ask as much in prayer.”

“You are ridiculous,” Felix says. He brushes down the front of Dimitri’s chest, flattening any ruffled velvet or unruly trim. “Hm. Acceptable.”

“That is high praise from you,” Dimitri says, catching Felix’s hand in his own to hold it still against his broad chest. Felix falters, letting himself be pinned. Even Dedue notices this stutter in his motions - the shake in his step as Dimitri stares into him. (Undoubtedly, Dimitri does not notice, and undoubtedly, Felix thinks this is just Dimitri’s normal strangeness.) 

“Thank you, Felix,” Dimitri, “Sincerely - I would be a sorry excuse for a king without you, wouldn’t I?”

“I’m quite sure some valet would catch you in time,” Felix scoffs and pulls away, because he is a fool and does not pick up on the implication, which Dimitri has no doubt laid unwittingly himself. Dedue does not have to look to know the duke is flustered - it’s clear enough in his pinched tone. Not clear to Dimitri, but clear to anyone else with eyes and ears. He can’t bear it.

Dedue takes his chance in the lull, stepping through the arch as though he had only just arrived.

“My apologies for interrupting,” Dedue nods to the both of them and removes his helm.

“Dedue,” Dimitri greets him with a warm smile. “No apologies are in order.”

Felix silently nods to him as well. To anyone who does not know Felix well, the gesture might come off as standoffish. Though, Felix _is_ standoffish, but not in this instance. No, his nod is one of respect, and one of their unspoken agreements. 

They have not always been on good terms, especially in matters concerning Dimitri. They have each suffered, they have each grieved, they have each fought… A funny thing, life - that they would share such similar pains and yet grow to be so different, like branches of a tree forking off in opposite directions. They fought often, once. Ah, _Felix_ fought often; Dedue refused to engage with him.

Sreng softened Felix’s rough edges. It was only then, in the desert wasteland, that Dedue saw him clearly. He remembers the battle as though it were yesterday, if only for how sharply Felix’s character shifted after that. A few hours’ ride north of the border, Felix fell right into an ambush. Dedue intervened, likely saving Felix’s life that day. But neither escaped unscathed. Were it not for Sylvain’s wyvern, perhaps neither would have escaped at all.

Much of that day faded into a blur, not from the passing time, but from his wounds and weariness. He remembers Sylvain hauling them back to the camp, remembers being helped into a caravan. Dedue sat beside Felix then, silently keeping guard (as if he were in any state to defend against an attacker). Felix lay there, anguished and addled by the heavy faith magic stitching over his wounds. Dedue hadn’t been much better off. Perhaps that was why the two could speak honestly - openly, if only for the short duration of the caravan ride.

Perhaps that was why Felix, after years of cold silence, began to speak about his past with Dimitri. He spoke of the darkness within the then-prince, and all the ways Dimitri had pulled away from him after the tragedy. He spoke of his isolation, his anger, his grief - all as though the wounds were raw and fresh. He did not speak of his love, but Dedue saw it all the same.

He understood Felix’s volatility then, however destructive and irrational it may have been. Whatever Felix saw in him that day, he still does not know, but he easily trusted Dedue after that. Perhaps he always should have trusted Dedue, but it was better late than never.

Felix is still prickly at the best of times, but he has long accepted that Dedue’s loyalty to Dimitri is not some helpless, blind thing. Perhaps Dedue does not know Dimitri in all the ways that Felix does, but there, too, are things that Dedue can see that Felix cannot. They work well together as duke and commander of the crownsguard.

“Have you changed your mind about the ball?” Dimitri asks, pulling him out of his memories, “You are plenty welcome at my table should you wish to stay in the hall.”

Dedue shakes his head. “No, but I thank you for the offer.” He does slightly pity Dimitri’s plight, but attending such functions is one of his duties as a monarch. “It is better that I keep watch over the castle grounds.”

“A wise choice,” Dimitri sighs. “Ah, well, it was worth a shot.”

Felix rolls his eyes at Dimitri. “Relax, would you? You can survive a damn ball. Besides, too much work has gone into this for you to get cold feet now.” 

“Ah, that reminds me - I have something for you.” Dedue hands over the newly tailored cloak.

Dimitri takes it, unfurling the bundle to its full length. It is surprisingly tasteful - not that the tailors lack skill, but Dedue is surprised by the restrained embroidery. Silver threads curl into the shape of a lion rearing to strike, the symbol of House Blaiddyd. Besides the lion, the cloak is relatively plain. The cerulean velvet shines under the lamplight, beckoning onlookers to touch. It _is_ soft - Dedue knows that much from carrying it.

“Exquisite,” Dimitri remarks, and his relief at the simple design is obvious. And truthfully, the simplicity suits him best. Though, if it were up to him, Dimitri likely would have chosen a mess of black over black, and even he knows he must concede to the stylists’ whims for such an occasion.

“Is there anything else you require before the ball?” Dedue asks, biting his tongue as it threatens to append ‘your majesty’ to the question.

“No,” Dimitri shakes his head. “No, I am quite alright, thank you Dedue. Though, if you could somehow find a doppelganger to take my place on the ballroom floor, I would quite appreciate it,” he chuckles.

Felix swats Dimitri on the shoulder.

“I shall keep an eye out.” Dedue smiles and leaves them be. They have much to discuss before the ball - not that they _will_ discuss any of it, but Dedue does not wish to meddle with their tense, wordless waltzing around their emotions.

* * *

“Well, I think that just about covers it!” Annie cheers, “Any more questions, Ashe?”

Ashe shakes his head, still a little dazed from… _everything_. But, hey… He can’t deny the existence of the two sparkling faeries sipping tea right before him.

“So, um, let me get this straight,” Ashe says, “You guys are the spirits of hope? And you’re not actually - er - _human-looking_ , you just choose to appear that way?”

“That’s right!” Mercie beams, “Don’t worry dear, our true forms aren’t scary, just incomprehensibly abstract to the mortal mind.”

“Uh, yeah…” Ashe can accept that. He can accept that the two kind women are _good_ faeries, because their magic tea is sweet and tasty, and they haven’t tried to goad him into any sweet deals just yet. And… Because he wants to believe.

Ashe wants to believe that there is some good in the world - that all his butterflies and shooting stars and steadfast wishes meant something. He is far past his eighteenth harvest at this point, but maybe, he thinks, it wasn’t so childish to hold onto his little storybook dreams after all!

“Well, Ashe, we’re burning moonlight here!” Annie laughs, “So what do you say?”

“Oh, um, what?” Ashe snaps out of his triumphant inner monologue.

“You still want to go to the ball, right?”

“O-oh, well, yes!” Ashe stammers, “But… How? I can’t go like this!” He gestures to his flour-stained rags. “And, um, I’m a commoner anyway - they would never let me into the palace… Oh, and even if they did-”

“Now, now, Ashe,” Mercie wags her finger, chiding him, “There’s that terrible self-doubt again. We talked about that, didn’t we? Don’t worry about all those things. With a few clever spells, we’ll have you at the ball in no time!”

“Yeah! Mercie’s right - leave all that to us!” Annie pumps a fist in the air, summoning her own, slightly smaller silver wand.

“But there’s one thing we can’t do for you, Ashe,” Mercie continues, “something you’ll have to manage on your own.”

“What is that?” Ashe asks nervously.

“You’ll need to believe in yourself, dear,” she says, “and believe in the power of hope!”

Ashe nods, smiling shyly. “Alright… I think I can do that, if it’s you two.”

“Would you do the honors, Annie?” Mercie claps her hands together.

“Of course!” Annie closes her eyes, summoning shining sparks from the air as she sings. Ashe can’t make out the words - or, he can, but they don’t make any sense… Something about a daisy flower, but then it… explodes? Well, faerie magic is probably pretty tricky for mortals to understand, so Ashe tries not to worry too much about the thought of exploding. Tiny motes of light dance around Ashe in a flurry of magical silver energy.

Eek! The light enveloping his body grew brighter and brighter, nearly blinding him for a second! But it was so warm too! Comfortingly so, like a hearty stew or woolen blankets rustling up against his skin.

“W-What’s going on?”

“You can’t go to the ball without an outfit, silly!” Annie giggles, “Now come on, it’s getting late! We’d better get going if you’re going to get to the ball in time!”

The light begins to fade. The warm weight of magic lifts from his chest, and soft, satin fabric slides against his skin. Ashe rubs the brightness from his eyes, adjusting to the dim dusk once again. He steps over to the birdbath, examining his changed reflection...

His tattered clothes are gone, replaced by a _beautiful_ velvet tunic dyed in deep purple and dark, elegant breeches. A soft blue coat layers over that, flowing nearly down to the floor! It’s warm enough to withstand the autumn chill, but not heavy by any means. His boots shine with polished black leather. Purple silk gloves wind from his fingers to his elbows, still shimmering with faint sparks of magic.

“Oh, wait!” Annie yelped, “Almost there!” She waves her wand in a tight circle, summoning the final touch. “Now, all of this will disappear at the stroke of midnight, so don’t stay out too late!”

A thin silver mask decorated with shining lace settles around his eyes. Ashe gasps, running his fingers over each piece to test if it’s real...

It is!

“Are you ready to go, dear?” Mercie asks with a smile. Behind her sits a shining silver carriage, adorned with climbing violet vines. Four perfectly elegant steeds wait patiently at the helm of the carriage. The whole carriage - steeds included - looks like it was woven from moonlight and magic! Oh, it’s all so wonderful! Ashe can’t help but feel the giddy hope buzzing within him.

“Ah, I think so,” Ashe says, “Ready as I’ll ever be!”


	2. Prelude

A crisp autumn breeze gusts through the open air of the palace training grounds, offering a much-appreciated reprieve from the late afternoon heat to its current inhabitants. Inhabitant, rather - _singular_. Felix has been furiously hacking at a quickly deteriorating training dummy for some indeterminate amount of time. More precisely, between one and three hours, if Dedue’s recollection of the duke’s scheduled meetings is correct. Based on Felix’s disheveled ponytail, Dedue suspects it has been closer to three than one.

“This is a roundabout way of torturing yourself,” Dedue remarks. ”Even for you, Felix.”

In comparison, Dedue’s intrusion is a relatively recent development, but he has watched the swordsman train for nearly half an hour now, patiently waiting for a break in his drills. Seemingly, his patience has paid off. Though, what Dedue would refer to as simple patience, Felix might call a siege.

He would not be wrong, exactly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix grumbles.

But the ‘unknowing’ Felix has come to the training grounds for a reason. And specifically, he has come in the middle of the afternoon, hours before a grand ball of his own making, _for a reason_. Dedue is not blind.

“Hm,” Dedue grunts.

Felix raises his hackles, ready to protest, but only for a moment before the fight drains from his tense little frame. Dedue is not here to fight Felix. At least, not outside the bounds of a spar. They are on better terms, after all. Good enough now to speak plainly with each other.

“I understand your devotion to duty better than most, Felix. Is that not fair to say?” Dedue goes on, “Have you not considered that your duty and happiness might coexist?”

“Rich that you’ve come to speak to me of prioritizing one’s happiness,” Felix jabs back. Despite his relative willingness to listen to Dedue, he is still not without his barbs. Talking to Felix may be as perilous as trimming the thorniest of his prized rose bushes. But if he can nurture even the pickiest Duscur roses, then handling Felix should be well in hand.

“Perhaps,” Dedue concedes. “It is true that for many years, I lived only to serve the king. But I have learned much in the years since, and this is not about my relationship with duty, but yours.”

Felix stares longingly at the training dummy. If he had his way (and Dedue has made sure that he does not), he would quickly go back to slashing at the poor bundle of straw like it might solve his issues. It will not, of course, but admittedly, if Dedue found himself pining for someone half as oblivious as Dimitri, he may well find himself pouring his frustration into any soft, inanimate object in sight. By now, Felix knows that he cannot shake Dedue off so easily. Thankfully, he does not try.

“He needs an heir,” Felix states - like it is the beginning and end of whatever futile conversation Dedue has tried to start. And perhaps for some nobles, it might be. But Dimitri is no traditional noble.

“He may choose to appoint an heir. He has considered the idea before, and does not object. The kingdom’s line of succession is well-prepared to handle his majesty not producing an heir regardless.”

“The kingdom may survive, yet is the last of the Blaiddyd line. He. Needs. An heir.”

“You are the last of your line as well, Felix. And yet you remain unmarried, despite an abundance of female suitors,” Dedue counters. “You are making excuses.”

Felix does not have an argument for that, despite the way he prickles in vehement objection. And so, knowing that he has no quarter, Dedue pushes - perhaps past the point that he should.

“You are in love with-”

“ _Don’t_.” Felix snaps, “You know Dimitri better than most, yes. But do not presume that you know _me_ so well.”

Too far indeed, then. Dedue sighs and attempts to straighten the skeptical wrinkle in his brow before it forms. Sure, Dedue ‘does not know’ Felix as well as Dimitri, his liege and closest friend besides. But he would have to be utterly oblivious to miss Felix’s feelings - though it would seem that much of the palace court has seemingly done just that. Or perhaps, they still simply hold out hope that the king might turn his attentions to them instead.

“Fine. That is true,” he concedes with an unbothered shrug. “Then you must believe me when I say that he feels the same towards you. Or, if you are still so intent on denying your feelings, then I will say it plainly. Dimitri loves you.” 

Dedue catches the swordsman’s stormy amber eyes for a short moment. Felix quickly averts his eyes, but it is futile. He is caught. He cannot deny that Dedue knows Dimitri better than anyone, save perhaps himself, and he cannot deny that he is blinded by his own bias.

But Felix does not like being pinned down. His fingers twitch restlessly at the hilt of his sword, and he is quick to focus his gaze on the distant weaponry tables, noting each sword in need of maintenance.

“Felix,” Dedue prods. 

“He deserves better,” Felix mumbles, as though if he spoke quietly enough, it would not count as expressing his true feelings. “There. You have my reasons - is that not enough?”

“Does he not deserve love?” he offers gently, “Tell him, Felix. If both of you want this, the rest of the kingdom must simply adapt.”

“It is too late,” the duke huffs, “Goddess willing, he’ll have a bride-to-be on his arm by midnight, and we’ll all be better off for it.”

“Then you should go to him now.”

“I will not ‘ _go to him_ ’. No. I have set this into motion, I will live with the consequences.”

“Felix-”

“I will ‘go to him’ on my deathbed if it satisfies you, and not before then,” Felix snaps, vicious as a winter wolf. And with that, he storms off, dropping his sparring sword onto the table with a clatter of iron.

Ah, Felix. He has changed, but perhaps not much.

Dedue sighs and straightens the tangle of swords on the maintenance table. Despite Felix’s prickliness, he had been more receptive than Dedue expected. Which was to say, he was slightly more giving than a brick wall. _Slightly_. In any case, the ball draws near. While Felix’s romantic turmoil might barrel into its next act unresolved, Dedue has preparations to make before the ball.

He cannot say he did not try. At this rate, only an intervention from the Goddess might force the two to make sustained eye contact. Dedue is, unfortunately, not a deity. He is, however, commander of the crownsguard, and he has a palace to secure before nightfall.

Ah, well, Dedue could use a walk around the palace grounds.

* * *

Somehow, the night sky looks even prettier from inside Ashe’s carriage. Well, it’s not as easy to see the stars through the carriage windows, but beautiful vines of climbing violet and sheer silver curtains frame the view, turning it into something truly magical. Everything is so _perfect_ \- not a wilting flower or fraying strand out of place!

“Oh, wow…” Ashe sighs, “This really must be a dream, right?” 

“Nope!” Annie cheers from the front of the carriage. “It’s all real, pinky promise!”

Ha, even in Ashe’s grandest dreams, he’s not sure he could conjure anything so very perfect! The flowers, the fine clothes, the rhythmic clop of hooves taking him closer to the palace with every stride - it’s all so fantastic! But of course, he should have expected nothing less of powerful faery magic.

Of course, knowing it’s real and not a magical dream where everything works out wonderfully, he’s a little nervous. Excited, mostly, but nervous too. There’s still that nagging bit of self-doubt saying that oh-my-Goddess-he’s-going-to-trip-and-fall-in-front-of-the-king-and-get-exiled-or-something! Which honestly, isn’t really all that unlikely. He’s quick as a (constantly panicked) mouse, and he has deft hands for icing cakes and sewing up little tears in his and his siblings’ worn clothes, but when it comes to all the precise steps of dancing… Well, Ashe hasn’t exactly had a lot of practice.

But he made Annie and Mercie a promise: tonight, he’s got to believe in himself. No worrying allowed! Even if he feels that terrible. evil doubt gnawing at his stomach like a big ball of tangled black yarn, there’s just no point in deciding that things are going to go all wrong before he’s even walked into the palace. No matter what happens tonight, he’s got to make the most of it.

Besides, even if he gravely offends some lords and ladies with his unsophisticated manners, no one will ever know it was Ashe. They’ll just think it was some mysterious lord who conveniently disappeared after the ball, never to be seen again. Ha, in a way, that’s almost more exciting! If he makes a real impression on any of the nobles, then they’ll never even know they spoke to a commoner - much less danced with one!

The silver carriage trots through the town, taking them past so many gigantic noble estates and brilliant buildings. Tall verdant trees stick up in the dense forests on the edge of town, casting shadows over the streets as they ride closer. They trot past a sparkling lake full of moonlight, then over the rolling hills leading up to the palace, and finally onto the cobblestone roads that go right up to the gates.

“Ready, Ashe?” Mercie asks from the front. 

“You’ve got this!” Annie chimes in. 

“I think so!” Ashe smiles. Okay, yes, he’s still a bit nervous, but mostly excited! He’s got two amazing fae spirits on his side, plus an incredibly fancy outfit, magical carriage and steeds, and a formal-looking invitation. He doesn’t really understand how his godmothers managed to sneak him onto what is undoubtedly a super secure ledger of guests, but by Annie’s mischievous smile, he assumes they’ve thought it through. He won’t question their methods!

As the carriage reaches the gates, Annie and Mercie tamp down their magical glittering and camouflage themselves to look like any old carriage driving duo. A tall, well-mannered valet in a dark navy cloak steps forward to open the door.

“Ah, thank you.” Ashe rises to step out, timidly taking the valet’s hand when he offers it.

The crisp night air hits him as soon as he steps out of the carriage. Luckily, the fuzzy fur lining of his magical cloak staves off the chill, but he can’t help but shiver a bit still. The moon shines bright overhead, casting a blanket of pale light down onto the colorful royal gardens. Sounds of festive music and revelry echo from the palace. Closer in the gardens, Ashe hears muffled laughter from the couples milling about the grounds. There’s so much to take in, and Ashe has only just arrived!

The valet helps him down from the carriage, then swiftly bows and accepts his invitation. Gosh, is this what it feels like to be a noble?! If it is, then Ashe can’t even imagine what life must be like living inside a palace full time! The gentleman carefully unfolds his letter of invitation, skims the text, then nods and tucks it into a pocket inside his cloak.

“Good evening, Lord Duran-” Duran? Ashe tries not to look confused at all. Of course his name is Duran. Of course he’s a lord. Obviously! “-The festivities are underway. Do you require a guide inside the palace grounds, my lord?”

“Ah, no!” he squeaks, panicked at the thought of this poor valet unraveling his ruse. “I mean, no thank you, I’m sure I can find my way around easily enough.” Ashe shrinks at the sound of doubt in his own voice. He must look terribly suspicious. He is supposed to be a _lord_ , after all, not a nervous messenger boy. But as startled as he must have sounded, the valet pays him no real mind. He simply nods and gestures for the gates to open, welcoming Ashe into the palace grounds.

“Thank you-” Ashe quickly catches himself before he can address the guard as ‘sir’. But what should he call him? “Um, what is your name?”

“Wes, my lord,” the valet says, tilting his head in confusion.

“Then thank you, Wes. You’ve um, been a wonderful valet,” Ashe stammers, managing only a quick, awkward nod before he hurries through the gates.

Well, that was an absolute disaster. Ashe cringes, already knowing that the simple, botched interaction will be the source of every random, hauntingly awkward flash of memories until the end of his life. That is, if he doesn’t make any even _more_ terrible blunders tonight. Oh, well. Now Ashe knows that without faerie glamour, he would never, _ever_ be able to pass as a noble! Ha, all the more reason to enjoy tonight while it lasts!

Ashe makes his way through the courtyard easily enough - it’s simple enough to follow the main stonework path to the steps of the palace, so it would be pretty tough to get lost. But then, the valet offered him help, so maybe he’s in the wrong place..?

No, no. Ashe is sure he’s in the right place! A boisterous celebration rings out from the ballroom just past the grand entrance hall, and he can smell something _amazing_ inside the palace. He smells savory herbs and toasted spices - ones that he can’t quite place by smell, but that he’d surely give anything to taste! Ah, but it’s just like him to get immediately distracted by food, isn’t it!

Well, the food will have to wait! Ashe takes a deep breath and pushes himself through the palace doors. The guards let him in without pause, bowing to greet him as a new guest. It still feels strange to be granted respect by the royal guards rather than suspicion, but Ashe is determined to act the part. He gives them a brief nod, doing his best impression of a confident, self-assured noble, and makes his way into the entrance hall. 

Huge, colorful paintings adorn the walls, showing landscapes from all across the country. Ashe has never visited any of the places (he hasn’t even heard of some of them!), but if the art does them justice, then the world out there must be far more beautiful than his little corner of town. Perhaps one day, if he ever pays his debts to Lord Kleiman, he and his siblings could cook for a band of traveling merchants and see the rest of the country for real! Ha, well, it seems a little optimistic that the perfect opportunity would just come along like that, but it would be fun, right? 

Paintings of past kings and highly honored knights hang among the landscapes. Ashe has heard of some of the knights, but not many of the past kings. He’s never really kept up with the business of the nobility - that’s more up Abby’s alley. Thick, cerulean curtains of heavy velvet hang from the tall glass windows, billowing down to the floors. The windows themselves may as well be art pieces too because the view of the royal gardens below is absolutely magnificent! Goddess, how much did all of this cost, anyway? Just one of these paintings must be worth more than the bakery itself!

A harsh, cackling laugh startles Ashe out of his thoughts.

“The Lady Maria?” a noble lady scoffs. She must be right inside the ballroom for Ashe to hear her so clearly. Perhaps it’s rude of him to eavesdrop, but she’s too loud for Ashe to pretend he hasn’t heard. “No, no, I hardly think they’d make a viable match. She owns no lands of her own. If she were the eldest, she’d have been the heir, but she’s only second born.”

“Perhaps so, but land is of little consequence to the sovereign.” another noble says, “As long as their union would ensure a strengthening of trade relations, the palace could be satisfied.”

Ugh, the sheer amount of politics in their conversation makes Ashe’s eyes glaze right over. Surely someone would consider that a fascinating little tidbit to overhear, but Ashe doesn’t even know who this Lady Maria is! And even if he did, he has no desire to think of her ‘trade relations’. Politics must be the worst part of being a noble. Perhaps that’s why they have so many fancy balls - it’s got to make the worst parts a little more bearable!

Ashe slips into the ballroom, quiet as a mouse. Of course, he hardly needs to be quiet. The loudness of the festivities nearly swallows him whole. The crowd’s eyes are trained on a handful of elegant dancers waltzing in the center of the floor. Ashe can’t quite see them, but the way the lords and ladies seem so entranced watching them, they must be quite talented. Lords and ladies seated at the nearby tables chatter on, absorbed in their own side conversations.

The ladies wear beautiful, richly colored gowns embroidered with shimmering satin threads and painted beads. The gentlemen wear ornate tunics and cloaks decorated with shining buttons and insignias of their houses. Though, many cloaks now sit discarded on the backs of the noblemen's chairs as they dance with the others on the floor. Ah, they must get quite hot, right? Ashe fiddles with the edge of his own cloak.

He is every bit as finely dressed as them, now - he blends right in! But his jaw still nearly drops at the sight of so many nobles gathered around the dance floor. Before tonight, Ashe had never even touched something as expensive as the clothes he wears now. To be around all these people, all dressed so nicely, it seems so surreal.

But the nobles aren’t nearly as stuffy as Ashe would have expected! Most of the lords at the tables have ruddy cheeks, either from dancing or drinking - or some combination. Married noble ladies sit together laughing, toasting, and surely gossiping about the king’s hopeful suitors on the floor. Ha, they remind Ashe exactly of the women in town who like to stroll by the bakery on their trips to the markets! For all their supposed high-class distinction and pedigrees, maybe they’re really not so different from commoners after all, are they?

Ashe wanders through the crowd, weaving past lords and ladies engaged in conversation until he finally breaks through to the snack table. Well, they’re probably not called ‘snacks’ - at the bakery, such things would be called _hors d'oeuvres_. Snacks by any other name would taste as delicious, but Ashe supposes it’s one of those rich people things.

Ashe nearly pockets a tiny slice of crispy bread covered in cheese before he realizes that he’s actually allowed to just _take_ it openly. He cautiously takes a small porcelain plate painted with lilies and begins to pile it high with snacks. Not too high, though! As tasty as all of it smells, he certainly doesn’t want to draw any odd looks. He takes two small slices of the crispy bread, three soft dumplings that smell of delicious spiced meat, and a few cut strawberries sweetened with sugar.

By the time he retreats to an empty table to set his food down, some of the crowd has finally broken away from the ballroom floor. Finally, Ashe catches a glimpse of the dancers. As the lords storm the snack table for refreshments, the music changes, leading into a new, upbeat tune.

Magnificent dancers twirl around the ballroom in a dash of colors. He could never imagine being so light on his feet! With every beat of the music, the colorful dresses and cloaks fold into each other as their wearers spin and dip around the ballroom floor. 

Surely many of these nobles have practiced their dance steps to death. The best dancers’ movements are precise, elegant maneuvers that flow like water. But others simply stumble and laugh with one another during the faster dances, especially when their cheeks are already red with wine and spirits So, as nervous as he is to make a fool out of himself on the dance floor, maybe he’d hardly be a fool at all!

No one is looking at him anyway, right? If he were to trip a little, it’s not like anyone would notice. Besides, he’s only got one night to revel in all this richness, so he may as well make the most of it! Ashe takes a deep breath, attempting to steady his nerves into an impenetrable wall of confidence. If he doesn’t get to have all the wonderful experiences of a ball, then he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. So if it means risking total embarrassment, then, well...

It’s just like Annie and Mercie said: he’s got to do the _believing_ part himself! He’s got this, he’s totally got this. Suddenly, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. 

“Oh, s-sorry, was this your seat? I d-didn’t see anyone, so, um...” Ashe fumbles out, jumping up from his seat. He whirls around, nervous to face the seat’s probably angry owner-

“Worry not,” a deep voice chuckles, none other than King Blaiddyd himself! “If you have displaced any of the lords, then it is nothing that cannot be smoothed over with wine and pastries.”

Eek!! Wait, he had only just talked himself into this! He wasn’t ready to face _the king_!! Ashe feels the heat rising to his cheeks as he tries to muster out a shy little greeting. Goddess, he is _distractingly_ handsome though! His shining blond hair is half pulled into a strong-looking ponytail. Piercing cerulean eyes peek out from his ornate golden mask, sculpted to resemble rays of the sun. His cloak and waistcoat are sewn from lovely satin blue fabrics, accented with gold - the royal Blaiddyd colors. Honestly, Ashe has no idea how he didn’t see him earlier!

“Y-your Majesty!” he stammers, shyly looking up at him. “Um, I h-hope you’re having a good evening!” Oh, Goddess, Ashe sounds so terribly awkward, doesn’t he? He quickly bows in an attempt to show that he has at least a basic understanding of palace decorum (which - if he’s being honest, he doesn’t). 

“Yes, of course,” the king says kindly, graciously forgiving whatever number of mistakes Ashe has surely already made in their brief conversation, “I hope you have enjoyed yourself as well, Lord…”

“Um, Lord Duran,” Ashe fills in, though the false name still sounds strange to his ears.

“Ah, yes, Lord Duran. I am sure we must have met, though perhaps some years ago. My apologies for not recognizing you under your mask.”

“Oh, um, no worries! I’m a very minor lord, actually. Very, _very_ minor! It’s an honor to, er, make your acquaintance, your Majesty.” Ashe cringes at how awkward and stilted his tone sounds compared to the formal speech of the other lords. If Alistar and Abby could see him, Ashe has no doubt he’d be in for the lecture of his life! But the king doesn’t seem outright offended by his common dialect, thank the Goddess. 

“The honor is mine, Lord Duran. Perhaps we might get to know one another better?” 

“Of course, your Majesty!” 

King Blaiddyd smiles, then bows and offers his hand. “Then, would you grant me this dance?” 

Did he just…

Oh, Goddess, _Goddess_ , he did! Ashe’s feverish panic bursts into warm giddiness as he processes the fact that the king - _the king_ has just asked him for a dance! He quickly straightens his posture, though surely any composure he might have had is lessened by the intense crimson glow spreading across his cheeks.

“Y-yes,” he stutters, “I would like that, your Majesty.” 

For all his blunders this evening, he’s sure that Annie and Mercie would be proud of him now, cheering him on from the sidelines. And so, Ashe takes the king’s hand, letting himself be led to the ballroom floor to dance the rest of his magical night away!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After many months of covid stress, the saga continues :)  
> Of all my ongoing pieces, this is the one I wanted to update first because it's such a fun little story, and it means a lot to me <3  
> We could all use a little more magic in our lives, especially now. To anyone who read the first part and thought this story died, sorry for the wait, but I'm glad you're back!
> 
> It's been pretty tough for me to focus on writing longer pieces recently, so I decided to throw out my original chapter plan and break this story into smaller chapters that are a little easier for me to edit. So this story will probably be around 5 chapters now, as I've tentatively broken the original second and third chapters into two mini chapters each.

**Author's Note:**

> I had hoped to have this all done by today, but as _always_ , I got too into the idea and had to fill it with worldbuilding and exposition! But rest assured that the two other chapters are actually drafted, so they're not as far off as the updates to my other ongoing works :)


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